Child's Play 6: Revenge of Chucky
by gamester76
Summary: Sorry Jack; Chucky's back! Again! And this time, he's after Andrew Barclay's entire family! Chapters 1-4 updated; added cover art!
1. A Child's Mind

Okay, so this one has been a long time coming. I initially started it back in 2011, but I went through this phase where I was constantly working on other projects and this one, though never forgotten, fell kind of to the wayside. I've constantly gone back to it, but I stopped briefly when "Curse of Chucky" was announced to avoid continuity problems. Now that "Curse" is out, I feel like this story is going to be even stronger than before. My plan now is to publish the entire thing at once, which will now be my MO on all future full-length novels.

Right now, I am posting the revised Chapters 1-4 to make everyone aware that this story is not forgotten. Look for the completed story this fall, likely around October 1st. I will also be publishing a "Nightmare on Elm Street" novel on October 15th, as well, for those who would be interested. Happy haunting!

Chapter 1

A Child's Mind

In Andrew Barclay's mind, there are doors. One could take an educated guess that behind these doors are his memories. Open one door and you will see the day Andrew first set eyes on his daughter, Moriah. Open another and you can witness the day Andrew was married to his girlfriend Kristen DeSilva. Most of the memories in Andrew's mind go back to when he was a child living with his mother in Chicago. As you can guess, most of these memories are happy memories. He remembers the foster sister, Kyle, who had cared for him as he grew older. These were the happy times of Andy's life.

There are other parts of Andrew's mind, however; parts Andy only visits on his darkest days. This is where he keeps his not-so-happy memories. He remembers the day his mother was locked up in an insane asylum. He remembered being snatched from Kyle's care at thirteen and being bounced around from foster home to foster home until he was sixteen, when he was shipped off to military school. He remembered being there the day his mother died in the asylum.

In the darkest corner of Andrew's mind, there is one more door. This door Andy keeps locked. For all other doors, Andy has a key. He does not have a key for this door because there is no lock on this door. There is no handle; there is no way anybody can enter this door because Andy doesn't want to remember what has been trapped behind this door. Nobody wants to know what happened that had to be locked behind this door; and those that do know wish they didn't.

"Why is this?" I can hear some of you asking. "What is so terrible that Andy needs to keep it in a sealed door to keep himself from remembering it?" Well, it's kind of a long story. But since I assume that most of you will be in this for the long haul, I guess I should start from the very beginning…

It all started one cold winter night in 1988. Specifically, November 9, 1988, the night that the notorious Lakeshore Strangler Charles Lee Ray was finally gunned down in a Chicago toy store. What happened next is pure speculation by obscure members of the occult, but it is believed that Charles used voodoo magic to pass his soul into a doll before finally dying. Ray's body is taken from the store and flown to New Jersey, where he is buried.

The next day was Andrew Barclay's sixth birthday. His mother Karen, a single woman, was struggling financially and was unable to buy a Good Guy doll, the hot new item of the season, for her son. But luck shone down on the down-and-out mother that day; a peddler had one of the coveted dolls in his cart. Andy is elated with his new birthday present.

That night, while babysitting the young Andy, Karen's friend and co-worker was shoved from the top floor of the high-rise where Andy lives. When questioned by police, Andy blamed his new doll, Chucky. Over the course of the next few days, several people in the Chicago area begin dying. The police assumed Andy was somehow involved and pin the six-year-old as a suspect.

Karen soon learned the truth, however, when she found Chucky had been talking without batteries. Frightened, interrogated the doll and was attacked by it. Chucky escaped and sought out John Simonsen, a voodoo instructor. John revealed that the doll was taking on human characteristics and would soon become a human unless Charles transferred his soul out of the body and into the body of the first person he revealed himself to, which so happened to be Andy. But Chucky's plan was foiled when he was killed by the police officer who killed him in the toy store.

Shortly thereafter, Karen was institutionalized and Andy got placed in foster care. After two years, Andy is taken in by the Simpson family. Andy lives his life as normal, but was still haunted by the killer doll. It turns out that Chucky's remains were gathered up by the Good Guy doll corporation and reused in the construction of another doll. Chucky's soul still possessed the doll and hunted down Andy. He went on another rampage, which was only ended when Andy and his foster sister Kyle defeat Chucky in the factory where he was made.

Afterwards, Kyle, who was legally an adult, planned to become Andy's legal guardian, but a series of bureaucratic obstacles prevented her from doing so and Andy was bounced around more foster homes for eight years until he turned sixteen, when he was shipped off to a Kent Military Academy. It was here that the sixteen-year-old Andrew met the lovely Kristen DeSilva.

But Chucky soon found his way to the military academy and met the young Ronald Tyler, whom he befriended. Chucky learned that Andy was at the academy and sought him out to kill him. Despite several deaths Chucky had caused, the academy's annual war games continued as planned.

More deaths occurred, and Andy and Kristen soon team up with Tyler to defeat Chucky, luring him to a nearby carnival and destroying the demonic doll in a high-powered industrial fan, shredding the doll to pieces.

And that was where Chucky exited Andy's life. Chucky lived on, yes. But Andy would have no further contact with the doll. Andy remained in contact with Krista, who soon left the academy, and Kyle, who grew up to have a child of her own, a son whom she named Andrew.

And this is where we find Andrew today; thirty-something years old, married with a beautiful nine-year-old daughter, and a steady job as the creator and screenwriter of a television series called "Child's Play." Years of therapy have kept the nightmares about Chucky at bay for over a decade and let Andy live a normal life. But then, one night, the nightmares begin to resurface…

Andrew Barclay sat in the Lockport Police Station interrogation room, still dressed in his army duds and covered in blue paint and red blood. He had long since lost count of how long he had been in there, but kept himself sane by replaying his kiss with Kristen DeSilva over and over again in his mind. It had only been an hour or so ago, but it might as well have been years...

The sound of an opening door distracted Andy. A burly guy with his cop badge on a chain around his neck stepped into the tiny cubicle, followed by a leaner guy in a suit. Probably a pencil pusher, Andy thought.

The thinner guy was carrying a file in his hands. It was open and he was reading it as he stepped inside. He looked up at Andy and closed the file, tossing it on the desk. It slid across the polished tabletop and came to rest right in front of Andy. Andy looked at the beige-colored folder and prepared himself for verbal assault.

"Andy," the skinny guy said. "I'm Detective Bailey; this is my partner Detective Matheson." Bailey pointed to the burly guy. "We would just like to clear up a few events regarding tonight's events."

"I've already gone over this with the local guys. Everything I know, you guys should know. It's all in that file; you have witnesses up at Kent who will confirm me." Andy sank back into the chair. His camouflage Kent Military Academy uniform was stained with blood.

"I just find it extremely hard to believe that a Good Guy Doll can be possessed by the soul of a dead serial killer and go on a rampage. I also find that ironic, given the brand of the doll."

"Why don't you just bring down one of the recruits or one of the Colonels from Kent? I'm sure they'll all be glad to tell you how Lieutenant Colonel Shelton got shot to death with live rounds during a war game or how Whitehurst threw himself on a grenade to save the lives his teammates."

"Calm it, Barclay!" Matheson shouted. "I don't know what happened up there at the academy tonight. But four people, two of them military academy students and the other a carnival cop, are dead and there's nobody to point the finger at! Except you," Matheson said coldly.

"Andy," Bailey said as he sat down across from Andy. "The only reason we suspect you is because of your history. This is the third time you claim that a possessed doll has entered and subsequently ruined your life. It seems that death has followed you everywhere you go. And this doll keeps popping up in your story. So does this..." Bailey picked up and opened Andy's file. "Charles Lee Ray. You keep calling the doll Chucky. Charles Lee Ray died in Chicago, Illinois ten years ago. He's been buried for a decade; he's nothing but bones in a coffin up in New Jersey now."

"Look, if you guys are gonna charge me with something, just do it. Otherwise, you have to let me go." Andy stared at his interrogators as they stared back. Bailey finally got up and walked towards the door, holding it open for Matheson. When they got outside, they shut the door.

"Well?" Matheson said.

"Well what?" Bailey replied. "We got nothing on him. We've interviewed the witnesses and they all corroborate the story. They all say they saw this "Chucky" doll holding the grenade that killed Whitehurst. As for the live rounds, only the Colonels and the Sergeants had the keys to the armory and Sergeant Botnick's was missing when they found his body. Andy's clean..." Bailey looked in through the two-way mirror. "...At least, he didn't kill them."

Ten minutes later, Bailey led Andy through the precinct towards the front desk.

"Looks like its back into the foster system for you, Barclay. Kent is getting shutdown pending investigation of recent events."

"What about Tyler?" Andy asked, remembering the kid he had befriended while at Kent.

"His dad's on his way back from overseas, but Tyler's gonna spend the night here until his dad arrives in the morning." Bailey said. "You, however, need a legal guardian." Bailey turned to Andy. "Is there anybody left at all in your family? Any relatives at all?"

"No," Andy said. "It's just Kyle."

"Kyle," Bailey said. "Isn't that the woman who was your foster-sister and became your legal guardian for about four years?"

"Yeah, that's her." Andy said.

"Okay, we'll try to get hold of her, but I can't promise anything." Bailey turned around and picked up the phone, quickly dialing a number.

Andy stood silent behind Bailey and felt a cool breeze rush across his face. He heard a door opening and looked to his left. A police officer was carrying a plastic bag in his hand. He approached Detective Matheson and handed him the bag. In the corner, a blonde woman was filing her nails. She looked up at the two officers as they met a few yards away from her.

"It looks like Barclay wasn't lying." Matheson looked into the bag.

"Jesus H. Christ," Matheson said. "It stinks like..."

"Like flesh," the young officer said.

Andy caught a whiff of the foul odor coming from the bag and his heart sank. His eyes sank down to the bag. It was black, but he could see something pressed against the plastic, stretching it out. Andy's heart raced in his chest while he stared at the face of Chucky pressing itself against the confines of the plastic, almost threatening to escape.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO...!"

"CUT!"

The director yelled the word so loudly that the actor on the stage covered his ears before the camera had quit rolling.

"That was beautiful, Danny! Beautiful!" Jim Clark shouted over the commotion of the set. On the stage, Daniel Wreaks grabbed a bottle of water that Casting Director Kevin Moretz had in his hand. He had no idea that the bottle was actually Kevin's, but Danny didn't know. Daniel didn't care. To Daniel, Kevin was little more than an anonymous stage assistant.

Danny gulped down the water and handed the bottle back to the anonymous person Kevin before walking off the platform and wrapping his arm around Karen Hemming, his co-star.

"Now was that a scream or what?" Daniel said seductively into the actress' ear. Karen smiled as Daniel led her away from the set.

Still sitting in the director's chair, Jim watched as the various stage-hands moved around equipment and the like for the next scenes. Part of his magic was being able to get a good chunk of footage in one take. He was able to really motivate his actors and get excellent performances out of them.

"Jim," said Kevin as he walked up to the director. "Here's the script for Episode 4.01; the network wants to know if you wanna nab this one before they send out the offer to Rob Bowman."

"Why? We haven't been renewed for Season 4 yet!" Jim shouted.

"Oh, yes we have," Kevin said as he handed him a sheet. "The Season 3 premiere last night KILLED in ratings."

Jim looked over the notes. He smiled broadly.

"This is good, this is good," Jim smiled. "If the numbers keep up like this for the rest of the season, they're not gonna be able to get rid of us!"

"The network called this morning and they're gonna renew us for Season 4 by Christmas if the ratings hold strong. That's why they're offering you this one." The assistant held up the script again. The title page said "Child's Play: Episode 4.01".

In television show lexicon, the first number meant which season is referred to while the second two numbers referred to the episode for that season. Under the title, Jim read the name of the author: Andrew Barclay.

"Oh, this ought to be a good one." Jim smiled to himself. "Where's Barclay at, anyway?"

"He's in A.D.R. with Brad," a passing assistant said.

"Andy, give me the kid." _That was no good_. "Andy, the kid is mine." The man reading the lines looked up from the script, dropped it to his side and stepped away from the microphone to address the man in the booth by pressing a button on the wall.

"Andy, are you sure this is good dialogue?"

"We've gone over this a thousand times, Brad," said the young-looking man in the folding chair, who was wearing a headset with an attached microphone. Andrew Barclay watched as Brad Dourif rehearsed his lines over and over again.

"I don't know," Brad said. "I just don't feel entirely comfortable with that line. Can I change it up a bit?"

"Brad, you've done this character for how many years? If you don't feel comfortable with that line, feel free to change it. You should be more familiar with Charles Lee Ray than anybody else on the set except for me."

"Got it, Andy. From the top?" Brad asked from behind the glass partition.

"No," Andy said. "Just that line again. Go!" Brad took a deep breath and his alter ego surfaced.

"No, gimmie the fucking kid! He's mine!" Brad yelled in a deep and frightening voice.

"Perfect, Brad!" Andrew said. "Now, let's hear that death scream!"

Brad took a deep breath to prepare for his Emmy-winning scream, but the opening of the A.D.R. room door distracted him and he began choking on his own air.

"Mr. Clark, sir." Andy said as he stood and performed a mock salute.

"Andy," Jim said with typical Hollywood enthusiasm. "How's it going back here?"

Andy lowered his hands and pointed to Brad in the recording room, who was taking a drink of water.

"I'm just going over the lines with Brad before he starts recording." Andy said.

"Yeah, I noticed," Jim said.

"Hey, Jim," Brad said through the intercom.

"Oh, Brad says hi," Andy said, still wearing the headphones. "So, was there something you needed?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim said. "I've already read the Season 4 premiere episode. And, I gotta say... Whoa!"

Andy smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Hey, great, whoa! What whoa?"

"Well," Jim said. "Ever since Daniel got the Emmy nod, he's been letting the fame go to his head. The studio is thinking about dropping him."

"You haven't read the script, have you?" Andy asked, clearly hurt.

"Of course I have!" Jim said, all smiles.

"No," Andy reiterated. "You haven't. What happens?"

"Well, uh, Chucky comes back and starts stalking Andrew."

"No," Andy said. "That was the original idea. In the first draft, Chucky actually possessed Andy in the first episode and Andy went on the rampage instead. This is not the first draft."

"Well, I swear I... Okay, you caught me," Jim admitted. "I haven't read it. What's going on?"

"The studio already called me and told me they're dropping Danny if he wins the Emmy and wanted me to have a script ready to go in case that happens so we can keep the series going."

"Well," Jim said. "What's the idea?"

"How about this for an idea; Chucky gets married." Andy said with a thick layer of sarcasm.

"What, that's the single worst idea I've ever hard!" Jim shouted, the sarcasm clearly lost on him. "I just want to know that we have something to fall back on in case Danny looses and the executives decide to keep him on."

"We'll go with the original script where Andy gets possessed." Andy said with severe resignation.

"Epic," Jim said as he turned to leave, signaling the assistant to follow him. Before he left, Jim turned back towards Andy.

"Just answer me this one question," Jim said. "How on Earth did you come up with such a wonderful story?"

Andy just looked Jim in the eye and smiled a broad smile.


	2. California Comfort

Chapter 2

California Comfort

Andrew Barclay had never dreamed he would be living in a mansion on Beverly Hills; it was quite the shock to him when his Bram Stoker Award-winning novel "Child's Play", the #1 New York Times Bestseller for 12 weeks, was optioned for a television series. It was an even greater shock when he was asked to write the pilot episode. The surprises just kept on coming when Andy wound up becoming one of the show's primary screenwriter and the official show-runner. When he had enough, he bought the enormous mansion he now owned and moved his wife and seven-year old daughter out to Hollywood.

Three years later, Andy and his loving family were enjoying the highlife in east L.A. His daughter, Moriah, was going to celebrate her tenth birthday in just two days. That was one thing even he could look forward to.

Andrew whipped his car, a brand new Mustang GT, into the drive way of the aforementioned Beverly Hills mansion. There was something odd about this mansion, though. Whereas all mansions in this neighborhood looked alike in that they were enormous, beautiful works of art with the latest model of exotic sports cars of some make or another parked in their driveways and Andrew's was no exception, his however was also the only one with a mini-van parked next to the sports car.

Andrew reflected upon this thought as he got out of his Mustang, taking off his sunglasses and glancing around the scenery. The palm tree in his yard provided a great shade for the mini-van so it would stay cool whenever he took his daughter anywhere. The entire front yard was fenced in with wrought iron on a low-rising concrete barrier with the exception of the driveway and a front gate, which itself was made of wrought iron.

The mansion itself had a decidedly Spanish feel to the architecture, with many arched windows and entryways. Nearly every window on the upper floors had a balcony of some sort jutting away from the adobe-like face of the house. As Judy Garland said, Andrew thought, there's no place like home.

Andrew didn't need his keys to open the door to his house; it was already open. The first thing he did when he came inside was nearly run over a small girl who was the daughter of one of the many other rich and famous people who lived on this street.

"Hey," Andrew yelled, a bit startled. The girl continued on her way, casting an apologetic glance backwards. Mere seconds later, Moriah came running after her friend; however, she was stopped by a pair of large arms that she traced back to her father.

"Daddy!" Moriah screamed with delight. Andrew picked up his daughter and lifted her onto his shoulders. "Mommy, daddy's home!" Moriah screamed at the top of her lungs.

That was the moment that Kristen Barclay, formerly DeSilva, peeked in through the arch doorway of the kitchen into the entrance hall. She let out a smile when she saw her husband holding his daughter above his head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel.

"Hey, honey," Andrew said. "I'm home."

"So I gathered," Kristen said.

"I saw one Affleck child; where's the other two?"

"Seraphina is down for a nap; she was getting cranky. You don't mind if they stay with us for a few days, right?"

"Why?" Andrew asked.

"Ben and Jennifer are going to New York, and they're taking Samuel with them."

"New York?" Andrew asked as he set his daughter down, who instantly ran off. "Why in the world would anybody want to go to New York?"

"Andrew," Kristen said defeated. "They're actors. That usually calls for them to go places where they film movies. New York is one of those places."

"Oh, right," Andrew said as he followed Kristen into the kitchen. She headed for the sink and continued washing the dishes as she had been doing when Andrew arrived.

"Honestly, baby, we're out here five years and it still hasn't sunken in yet, has it?"

"What hasn't sunk in?" Andy asked as he wrapped his arms around his wife's belly, eliciting an enormous grin from her lips.

"That we're millionaires living in one of the best mansions in Beverly Hills, living next to people like Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck, that we eat lunch with Leonardo DiCaprio on a daily basis, and you work for one of the most successful horror series on television today." Kristen turned around and looked at her husband, leaning in for a kiss which Andrew was all too happy to give her.

Just outside the doorframe, Moriah and Violet watched with gross fascination.

"They do this every day," Moriah said.

"That's disgusting," Violet said. "But it's nowhere near as bad as what I've seen my parents do at night. Mommy calls it 'wrestling'."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The loud knocks startled the two young girls and they shrieked, which in turn startled Kristen and Andrew. Kristen squealed as well, which caused Andrew to let out a scream that made him seem even less manly. When everybody calmed down, Andrew walked into the living room and opened the door. His eyes went wide with surprise.

"Kyle!" Andrew screamed as a tall woman with flowing blond hair and a supermodel figure thrust herself at him and wrapped her arms around him.

"How's my favorite little brother doing?" Kyle asked as she held Andy close.

"How many times have we gone over this? I'm not your brother," Andrew said with a laugh.

"Well, I still consider you my brother whether you are or not," Kyle said. At that particular moment, a young boy who was about four years old ran into the entryway, screaming, "Mommy! Uncle Andy!"

Andrew took a moment to look down at the newcomer and scooped the young boy in his arms.

"Jeez, you're getting big, Charlie!" Andrew said. "So what brings you down here, Kyle? Got tired of all that sand and sun and no surf out in Nevada?"

"No, goofy," Kyle said as she took her son from Andy's arms. "We're here for Moriah's birthday."

"But that's not for another two days," Andrew said.

"I know, but the only other flight out here was day-of and given how paranoid airlines are these days I didn't want to risk missing my only niece's birthday. Speaking of, where is she?"

"She was right here," Andrew said as he turned around. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Moriah and Violet in the back yard playing with NERF guns, an odd choice of toy for a couple of girls their age but they seemed to be having fun.

"So, Kyle, how long did you intend on staying?" Andrew asked as Kristen walked up behind her husband.

"Probably a week or so," Kyle said as she walked into the living room and sat down in one of the leather-upholstered chairs. The look on her face indicated she was caught slightly off guard as she sank deep into the chair.

"Well it'll be great to have you around. Moriah doesn't get the chance often interact with family," Andrew said. "Maybe I can convince the network to give you a tour of the set."

"Oh, which reminds, I have to tell you my thoughts on the show," Kyle said. "I always knew you were gonna do something extraordinary, Andy, but I don't think anybody could have called it that you would turn your experiences into a TV series."

"Well, I had to do something. Therapist said I had to stop living with this fear I have of Chucky. And I just vented everything on paper. It was just chain of lucky coincidences that it became the highest rated horror series on television today."

"Well, all that aside," Kyle continued. "I'm pretty sure than neither of our parents would have approved of your venting method. You may have only lived with them for less than a month, Andy, but my parents loved you as their own son. They would have been proud of your success, as I am, but I don't think they would have like the method you used to get there."

Andrew couldn't think of anything else to say; Kyle may have been a bit forward and somewhat condescending, but none of that stopped her from being absolutely right. His face sank and his hands began shaking.

"So do you think I should quit?" Andy asked with sincerity.

"Hell no," Kyle said nearly screaming. "I love the show!" Andrew let out a triumphant smirk that he made a half-assed attempt to hide as Kristen playfully smacked him across the back of the head. This only caused Andrew to burst with laughter. Kyle soon joined in and eventually Kristen, powerless to resist, laughed as well.


	3. Audition

Chapter 3

Audition

Casting Director Kevin Moretz sat in his desk in the casting offices at Chiller Network, pouring over the several hundred audition tapes of many aspiring actors who wanted to get their start. Kevin was always bored with this aspect of the job because all he did was sit in his chair for hours on end and watch the majority of America make complete asses of themselves because they didn't know how to act.

However, for every two-thousand bad actors, there were usually about five who seemed to be very good. These were the ones that grabbed his attention; he would write down their names and information in an envelope and stick a DVD copy of the audition video inside it and place the envelope in a box. He would later use them as a reference when the person who auditioned was called in for callbacks.

Right now, however, Kevin needed a drink. He had an audition scheduled for 5:00, but she never showed up. It was now approaching 9:00 P.M. Figuring his desk would be safe for a few moments, Kevin moved into the hallway in search of the nearest Coke machine. He found one and returned to his desk after buying three Mountain Dew Live-Wires.

Kevin let out a small shudder as cold wind rushed up his backside. It was only September, but he could already feel winter's cold breath creeping through the cracked windows. Kevin stood up to go close the windows, but was surprised to find that they weren't open. He checked another window and saw that it, too, was closed.

Maybe it's the air conditioner, he thought optimistically. Kevin checked the thermostat; 58 degrees.

"No wonder its so goddamned cold," Kevin said aloud. He turned it up to a toastier 69 degrees. "Much better," he said. As Kevin turned away from the thermostat, he heard his name called.

"Kevin!"

Kevin let out an unmanly scream as Jennifer Tilly, emerging from the shadow she had been cast in, did likewise.

"Kevin," she said in her characteristically soft voice as she calmed down. "I am so sorry. Did I scare you?"

"Just a little, Jenny," Kevin said. "How are the kids?"

"Oh, Glen is just adorable!" Jennifer gushed. "Glenda, on the other hand, is a bit of a problem child."

"Uh-huh, that's definitely a problem," Kevin said as he stole a peek (or two) at Jennifer's... uh, ample... cleavage. He then gave the rest of Jennifer's body a good once over, taking in all of her thick curves and hair that hovered somewhere between black and brown in color and hung down just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a light blue, almost the exact color of the sky on a sunny day.

"So, what can I do you with? I mean, help you for? I mean... Uh, how can I help you?"

"Well, I actually came in to see you," Jennifer said trying to sooth Kevin's nerves. "I had an audition scheduled earlier this evening, but I was... held up."

Kevin couldn't see it, but behind her back Jennifer was wiping clean a bloody Buck knife with a small section of her black dress. The blade had a serrated back edge that cut a ragged slash in her dress as she dragged it across the fabric. And then, masking her hand movements with masterful skill, Jennifer slowly lifted the back of her dress up and slid the blade of the knife into the waistband of her G-string. That would not have soothed his nerves at all...

"Ah, I see. Well, I'm sorry Jennifer but it's actually getting pretty late and I've got a lot of work to do before tomorrow morning," Kevin said.

"Oh, but it won't take but a few minutes. The part _is_ still open, isn't it Kevin...?" Jennifer asked with some concern. Kevin looked into Jennifer's blue eyes and, for a brief instant, they seemed to turn green. Kevin decided it was a trick of the light... or lack, thereof.

"Well, in that case, we're gonna need something more powerful than Mountain Dew," Kevin said. "I'll be right back." He walked out of the room towards the coffee pot in the lounge. As he left the room, Jennifer did a small dance of triumph and smiled. Her face, however, suddenly dropped, as if something so important as to mean the difference between life and death, had just crossed her mind.

"Uh, Kevin," Jennifer called. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Uh, it's down the hallway to the left, right across from the prop room!"

"Thanks, Kevin," Jennifer said. She followed his instructions, but did not go into the bathroom. Instead, Jennifer entered the room across the hall: the prop room. Once inside, Tiffany began her search.

Well that was easier than I thought it would be, she thought. Tiffany had gotten used to the meat-suit she had worn for so many years; it was almost like she and this "Jennifer Tilly," the woman whose body Tiffany was possessing, were becoming one in the same mind.

Tiffany remembered how she had come to possess Jennifer. It was while she was still stuck inside that slutty-looking doll Charles had put her in. Oh, it had started out as a simple enough joke.

Back when she had her original human body, Tiffany had gone through the trouble of tracking down Chucky's remains, having known all along about the voodoo-hoodoo he had used on himself to trap his soul into child's doll. Then, she sewed back together all the chopped-up parts and returned Charles back into the doll's body, thus restoring his life. And how did Chucky repay her for her kindness? First off, he slaughtered Tiffany's horny Goth ex-boyfriend (who, now that she thought about it, was a complete jerk), which was a nice enough gesture for restoring his life. But then, he killed her by electrocuting her to death in the bathtub. And then what really set her off was the fact that he returned HER to life in the body of some slutty piece of plastic that was only female by design.

However, they put their differences aside long enough to concoct a plan to return to human form. But, that plan ultimately failed and, long story short, Tiffany wound up in Jennifer Tilly's body and Chucky wound up dead. Oh, and somewhere along the line, Chucky got Tiffany pregnant and, even longer story short, now has two kids named Glen and Glenda.

As for Chucky, well, Tiffany had plans for Chucky. When he was still alive, Chucky mentioned something to her about Andrew Barclay. It had taken over half a decade, but Tiffany managed to track down this Andrew Barclay. That was what she was doing in the Chiller Network building; searching for Barclay's information. She had tracked him this far and wasn't about to go home empty handed. But first, she would need an ally.

And that was what she was doing in the prop room; searching for that ally. And, stuffed inside a large plastic box, she found said it. She pulled a black plastic bag out of the box and reached inside and groped around the chopped up bits of plastic before pulling out a large, round chuck with wavy strands of red hair. The head of what had once been a Good Guy doll was hardly whole, but it was easily recognizable her target: Chucky, a.k.a. Charles Lee Ray.

Tiffany caressed the plastic with her long fingers and scraped it with her manicured fingernails, leaving a small scar where the nail had scratched the plastic. She leaned into it and, with her cherry-red lips moving slowly on her pale and otherwise flawless face, whispered seductively, "Hello, dol-"

She stopped short. Her green eyes darted to another object in the box. It was another Good Guy doll. This one, however, was whole. There was nary a scratch on it other than a few small rips and tears on its otherwise pristine set of clothes. Tiffany looked at the head in her hands, then at the doll in the box, then at the head in her hands, and looked back at the doll. Without another look, she shrugged her shoulders, grinned at one corner of her mouth and tossed the head over her shoulder. She then grabbed the intact Chucky doll and turned towards the exit.

"Makes my job so much fuckin easier," she muttered as she walked out the door. She then walked down the hall towards the lounge where Kevin was just filling two glass mugs with fresh-brewed coffee. Tiffany walked in and set the Chucky doll on a table just to the right of the door before reaching back under her dress. She grabbed the handle of the Buck knife, but didn't remove it just yet.

Kevin never heard Jennifer enter the room. Instead, he was too busy pouring the fresh brewed coffee into two ceramic mugs, each displaying the "Child's Play" logo in blood-red. If Kevin had bothered to look up into the mirror, he would have seen Jennifer approach him with malicious intent in her eyes.

Imagine his shock when he felt the cold piece of thin steel press against his neck. Jennifer had closed the gap between them and was nearly touching his backside with her front when she finally removed the Buck knife from her G-string and whipped it around to Kevin's neck in one lightning-fast move. She grabbed the top of Kevin's head and whipped back far enough that he was looking at the ceiling. He stopped dead in his tracks... and began laughing.

"Jim, I had no idea you were still in the building," Kevin said, so confident that it was Jim Clark. "But enough with the jokes, dude. It's late and I got an audition to go check out." Jennifer pulled the knife tighter to his neck; a low groan escaped Kevin's mouth.

"And what part of the audition, exactly, did you intend on checking out?" Jennifer whispered seductively into his left ear.

"Uh..." The words disappeared from Kevin's mouth when he heard Jennifer's voice. "Jennifer... I thought I said I'd be right back."

"Oh, Kevin," Jennifer said. "Don't you know the rules of the horror genre? Never say 'I'll be right back.' Wanna know why? Cause you won't be back... ever."

"Is that a threat, Jennifer?" Kevin asked, his voice dripping with concern for his life.

"And one more thing..." Jennifer leaned back into Kevin's ear and nibbled it playfully before whispering harshly, "Why the fuck are you still calling me 'Jennifer?'"

She whipped his head forward so that he was staring directly into the mirror and saw Kevin's eyes go wide with fright.

Kevin saw Jennifer Tilly in the mirror... only it wasn't exactly Jennifer Tilly. The round face with the chubby cheeks was the same, but the body was much slimmer. Her hair was blond instead of brownish-black and was tied back into a ponytail. And her eyes... her eyes had turned a bright and seductive green color. Her face twisted into a satanic grin as she dug the knife into Kevin's throat.

"My name," she whispered, softer this time, saying it as if she were seducing him. "My real name... is Tiffany."

With that, Tiffany quickly drew the Buck across Kevin's neck. The blood squirted onto the mirror, erasing the reflection in a cascade of red. The red waterfall cascaded over the reflection of Tiffany standing over her newest kill. Jennifer then moved to replace the knife in her G-string... only to be unable to find it.

Just then, she felt a draft between her legs. She looked down... and saw her G-string lying on the linoleum floor tiles, the waistband cut where she had stashed the Buck. Jennifer looked at the knife and saw strands of fabric stuck to the serrated edge. She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"I knew I should have used that leather sheath."

Jennifer took a moment to clean up her mess. She started by removing Kevin's body and that of the security guard she had eliminated to get inside the gate.

Once the security booth was spotless and the mirror in the lounge spic and span, she stuffed each of the bodies into separate black trash bags, and then loaded the bags into the trunk of her car. When she finished, there wasn't a drop of evidence that Kevin had ever been there, let alone been killed.

"And now, dolly," Tiffany said as she got into the driver's seat of her car and looked over at the Good Guy Doll strapped into the passenger's seat. "I think it's time to go home to the kids, don't you?"

The doll turned its head and said in an electronic voice, "Hi, I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

Tiffany laughed and mumbled, "Thought so," before taking off down the highway.


	4. The Family Business

Chapter 4

The Family Business

Andrew Barclay lay out on his back patio, a large expanse of concrete that enclosed an in-ground swimming pool, and gazed up at the stars. He would do this every so often when he required a moment of peace. However, he was currently at peace already and just wished to have a moment to reflect on his good fortune.

The crickets chirped loudly against the silent sounds of the night. Andrew experienced a brief moment of complete and total Zen. He closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted backwards through time. He saw his mother's face smiling at him as she handed him his birthday present. Andrew opened the wrapped surprise with exceeding enthusiasm, only to be completely let down by the fact that the box containing the Good Guy Doll was in fact empty.

He tossed the box in the garbage and walked away, only to hear a low rumble from the garbage can a few seconds later. Andy turned around just in time to watch the can explode in front of him. The force of the violent explosion threw him backwards where he landed on his back. Andy looked up, and saw Chucky emerge from the smoke.

"Thought you were gonna get away, huh Andy?" Chucky barked. "Not today pipsqueak! Today, you fucking die, kid!" With that, Chucky leaped out for Andy's mother, landing on her chest and slashing her throat with a knife. She began to bleed out and collapsed to the floor, spraying blood all over Chucky and Andy.

"Ah," Chucky sighed. "I nice, warm shower. Haven't had one of those in years..." Chucky grabbed for Andy, who fell over while wrestling with the doll…

...and out of the lawn chair on which he lay. Andrew began thrashing about on the concrete, swatting the hand that was trying to touch his face.

The hand was warm to the touch; not the cold plastic that Chucky's hands were made of.

These hands belonged to a human.

They belonged to Kristen.

Andrew slowly stopped his struggling as he saw Kristen in his line of sight, standing over him and looking concerned.

"Andy, is everything alright?" Kristen asked with folded arms. Andrew, still lying on the concrete, looked around for the demonic toy, which was nowhere to be seen. He did, however, see the extremely worried look on his wife's face.

"Yeah, I'm fine, babe," Andrew said. He stood up and brushed himself off. "I promise I'm fine." He took a deep breath and sighed. "No, I'm not." He flipped the lawn chair back to its original upright position and sat down. "They've started again, the dreams."

"Shit," Kristen muttered. "Do you want me to call the studio and tell them you're not coming in the morning?"

"No, I'll be alright for work tomorrow. I guess it's just because..." Andy paused.

"Because what?"

"Do you know what this Saturday marks?" Andy said with a heavy sigh.

"The tenth anniversary of your mom's death." Kristen said sorrowfully. She kneeled down and rested her head on the armrests.

"Yup," Andrew said. "It's a real shame that Moriah will never get to meet her. They would have adored each other."

"It's no use dwelling on the past, Andrew. You've got me and Moriah looking out for you, and we need you to look out for us."

Andrew took a moment or two to reflect on Kristen's words. There was definitely wisdom to them; it sounded almost like something his mother would say. Andrew looked up at his wife, who was now leaning her head against his shoulders.

"You know, you're right. You're always right." Andrew laughed as Kristen let out a big smile.

"Come on, dreamer boy, let's go to bed." Kristen pulled Andrew out of the chair and ran up the stairs, leaving Andrew to chase her footsteps.

Tiffany pulled up to her lavish Beverly Hills mansion. The car she drove slipped into the garage so quietly that a whisper would have sounded like a gunshot by comparison. But Tiffany had to be silent so as not to attract unwanted attention.

When the car came to a stop in the garage, she quickly pressed a button on an automatic door control hidden in a small compartment on the roof of her car. Servos whirred to life and cranked the garage door shut. What she was about to unload from her trunk, she didn't want the paparazzi to catch in their pesky little cameras. She opened the door and walked around to the trunk of her car. When she lifted the trunk, she took an involuntary step back and winced; the stench was already horrible. She closed the trunk rapidly and fanned the odor away from her.

"Glenda!" Tiffany shouted in a choked voice. "Come down here and help mommy for a moment!"

"Okay, mom!" came a reply. A few seconds later, eight-year-old Glenda Tilly, as Tiffany had officially named her, came in through back door. She was a pretty little girl, with jet-black hair and a short build. When she spoke, however, her voice sounded way too mature for a normal eight-year-old.

"And don't treat me like I'm seven." Glenda said.

When Glenda was born, she had been the alter-ego of her brother Glen, two minds trapped in the same plastic body for six years. A ritual (the specific details of which are not relevant to the story currently being told, but let me assure you that it's a doozy of a tale) caused their souls to inhabit the bodies of two young infants. As a result, Glenda was actually fourteen years old and trapped in the body of an eight-year-old. Not that she was complaining, but it did put a slight pall on her budding social life.

"Ah, Glenda, help me with these two," Tiffany said as she took a deep breath, held it, and reopened the trunk. It didn't work; she still gagged at the horrendous smell.

"Jesus, mom! You've been a killer for how many years and you still can't stand the smell?" Glenda said.

"Quiet, you'll wake your brother." Tiffany said. "Now take those bags out to the trash."

Glenda did as she was told and heaved the 200+ pound trash sack over her shoulder with relative ease; no easy feat for a normal eight-(or fourteen?)-year-old. Tiffany opened the back door for her daughter and followed her outside.

"Shit, mom, feels like you did a real number on this guy." Glenda said hauled the body over to the large dumpster near the gate to the alley.

"He was a security guard. Looked like he may have been a body builder at one point, so he was a little on the hefty side; had to cut him down to size to get him in the bag."

As Glenda tossed the bag into the dumpster, the side caught on a jutting edge and ripped, causing the guard's entire severed arm to fall out of the hole.

"I can tell," Glenda said as she stuffed the arm back into the sack before tying the hole together. She returned to the car and got the other bag, tossed it in the dumpster and quickly shut the lid. Tiffany reached into the passenger seat of her car and grabbed another, smaller black sack before following her daughter inside.

"So tell me what these two did to deserve it," Glenda said as she sat down at the kitchen table. "And don't skimp on the gory details this time. Give me every broken bone and bruised organ."

Tiffany grabbed a gallon of milk from the fridge, then walked over to her daughter and plopped the gallon down on the center of the table before plopping her own ass on the wooden chair. Glenda immediately reached for the milk and began chugging it.

Tiffany reached into the plastic sack at her heels and pulled out the Good Guy doll. She set it on the table where the milk was; Glenda almost gagged.

"Is that...?" She spat. "Is that dad?"

"No, this is a Good Guy doll," Tiffany said with a convincing smile. "Daddy's in Hell, remember? Did you set up the altar just like I showed you?"

"Yeah, but I thought that was for me and Glen. I thought you were gonna get us real bodies so we wouldn't be stuck in these meat-suits!"

"Hey, I gave birth to those 'meat-suits,' so show some respect!" Tiffany snapped at her daughter. "But we're getting off topic. Yeah, we're bringing dad back."

"Awesome," Glenda said. "Glen's really gonna freak; he hated dad."

"No he didn't; he just didn't approve of the lifestyle your dad chose."

"Hey, you chose it too. And one day, I'll walk the same path you guys did. It's like some sort of macabre family business."

"Glen doesn't see it that way," Tiffany said ruefully. "He thinks that killing is wrong. I had hoped that having him grow up around it would change that, but it turns out that I was wrong." Tiffany sighed and placed her face in her hand, which she was resting on the table as she watched Glenda empty the gallon of milk in a matter of seconds.

"Well enough with the master plan," Glenda said as she wiped the milk from her upper lip. "Tell me about tonight's body count."

"It was easy getting past the guard; I just told him about that casting appointment I made. Then I met with some casting director. Took that buck knife of yours to his throat or else he would have found out I made off with the doll."

"Understood," Glenda said with a smile. "So what about the other stiff: the security guard?"

"What about him?" Tiffany asked.

"Was he hot?" Glenda asked, grinning.

"Eight year olds should not be thinking those thoughts," Tiffany said in reproach. Her tone then shifted to gushing. "Yes," she said with an enormous grin. The two girls giggled wildly. "It was so unfortunate he had to be on duty tonight; I would have loved to have taken him out to dinner."

"So then why did he have to bite it?"

"That casting director was the only other one in the building. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that I killed him. If the guard found him, they'd be on my trail and the plan would be history. It's part of that whole 'leave no witnesses' rule you seem to be so fond of."

"Speaking of witnesses," Glenda said. "Look who decided to join in on the conversation."

On the staircase above them, Glen looked on in disappointment. He, like Glenda, was a fourteen-year-old trapped in an eight-year-old's body. Glen, however, had short red-hair instead of black and he was stockier than the average eight-year-old. He also wore square-rimmed glasses. He walked down the stairs and approached his family, sitting on the opposite end of the table as them.

"Hey, Glen," Tiffany said. "How's your night going?"

"Mom, cut the bullshit," Glen shot. "I saw your little set-up in your bedroom. You're up to something."

"Glen, just don't worry about it right now," Tiffany said. "Go back to bed and I'll come upstairs and explain everything to you later."

"Yeah, Glen," Glenda mocked. "In other words, none of your fucking business!"

"Glenda, be nice to your brother," Tiffany said.

"He's not my fucking brother!" Glenda shouted as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I will not accept him as my brother until I see him rip out someone's beating and bloody heart and hold it up to the moonlight!" She mimed the motion she just described by cupping her hand and holding it in the air, rapidly mimicking the beating of a human heart with her fingers and thumb.

"Glenda, we already went over this," Tiffany said tired. "Glen physically does not have it in him to kill; you are the physical manifestation of his dark side, now trapped in the body of a seven-year-old."

Glen rolled his eyes as the argument he had heard over and over began once again.

"He still has darkness somewhere in his soul, you know," Glenda continued. "I hear some of the things you shout at night! 'Kill them, kill them, mommy, kill them!'"

"Glenda, I think that's enough for tonight," Tiffany said quickly. "Bed, now!" Glenda stood up and strode briskly out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Glen and Tiffany alone in the kitchen.

"Glen, honey," Tiffany began. "She's just..."

"No, she's right," Glen said, shaking his head. "I do have some sort of darkness inside me. I wake up in the middle of the night, screaming these horrible things..."

Her maternal instincts kicking in, Tiffany stood up and walked over to her son, sitting in the chair next to him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled her close to him as he let the tears begin to flow.

"Calm down, honey," Tiffany soothed. "Glenda just doesn't understand that you have made your choice. She doesn't know how hard of a decision that is to make. Lord knows I've tried myself, but it's just my nature. It was your daddy's nature as well, and now it's Glenda's nature. But for you to make the choice we couldn't, well, I'm proud of you, Glen. I really am." Tiffany smiled at Glen, who wept softly into his mother's arms.

Ten minutes later, Tiffany stood at the back fence of her immense back yard. In her hand, she held a cigarette than had burnt halfway down to the filter; she hadn't taken a single drag from it as her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts drifted back thirty years ago, when she first met Charles Lee Ray.

Charles had been a real lady killer, literally and figuratively. Tiffany first laid eyes on him in a back alley in downtown Chicago. She had been window shopping on her own and, for some reason, had the urge to look down the alley she was passing.

Charles was holding a knife to the throat of some bum. Charles' long, wavy hair covered at least half of his face and traveled down past his neck. Surprisingly, he still seemed to be in his early twenties. Tiffany may have been blonde, but she would have had to be flat-out fucking stupid to not have found Charles' bad-boy attitude somewhat attractive. Later, she would realize that this was the reason she watched in gross fascination when Charles slit the bum's throat before raiding his body for whatever he could divvy up from his pockets. When the reality of what she just witnessed (and the smell of it) hit her, she keeled over in the alley and puked. When she looked up, she saw Charles standing over her, bloody knife in hand. She thought he was gonna take care of her like he did the bum, which is why she was surprised when he took a rag and wiped the bile from the corners of her mouth before placing a sensual kiss on her forehead. Before Tiffany could say a word, Charles wrapped the knife in the rag and handed it to her as he walked off.

He had lived in a trailer park Lockport; Charles had to live a low profile because of his crimes. But somehow, Tiffany found him. Now, she couldn't remember exactly how it happened. Maybe she had caught him on the streets and asked about him. She might have simply snuck out one night and gone bar hopping looking for him. It didn't matter how she found him, only that she did. And when she did, she never wanted to leave him again. Tiffany's parents would spend the next three years searching for their daughter, but they would not find her for another six years when she was escorted into a Chicago court house on charges of murder and aiding and abetting the Lakeshore Strangler, Charles Lee Ray.

On their first date (well, they called it a date; the police called it armed robbery), Tiffany told Charles that one day, she was gonna spread her wings and fly on her own. The lofty fantasy of a teenage girl is what Charles dismissed it as. But even though some of the things she said and did Charles considered childish, he loved her deeply. So much so that any man who even _looked_ at her wrong met with the wrong end of a very sharp knife.

When Tiffany moved in with Charles, he wasn't able to afford the lavish estate that Tiffany had grown accustomed to. He did, however, give her that first taste for blood. It was Charles who had turned Tiffany from the timid, pampered little sixteen-year-old she had been when they first met into a fully developed woman and a killer by nineteen. Her nineteenth birthday; that was a day Tiffany remembered fondly. The blood of the man she had killed, a store clerk, had offended her nostrils for at least a week afterwards. Before that day, the largest thing she had killed was a cockroach. Before that day, Tiffany had only been the getaway driver. That day, Tiffany killed something significantly larger than a cockroach. Tiffany remembered every single detail about that day.

They had pulled up to a convenience store in suburbia that had been dubbed the "Maverick." They had parked in the fourth parking spot from the road, less than ten feet away from a Coke machine and the emergency shut-off switch for the gas pumps. There were four gas pumps.

Tiffany sat in the car and pulled her long blond hair back into a ponytail. The fabric of the scrunchie felt soft on her tiny hands and she could hear the sound of the scraping fabric as she wrapped it around her hair. It made her nervous. Well, more nervous.

Charles reached into his glove box and pulled out a carton of Marlboro cigarettes and a matchbook. Tiffany remembered the smell of the match igniting and, seconds later mixing with the choking smell of the cigarette's smoke.

"Tiffany," Charles said in a soft, warm, yet commanding voice. "Remember all those years ago when you told me that you were gonna spread your wings? Fly on your own?"

"Vaguely, yeah," Tiffany lied. Of course she remembered. It was a stupid thing she had said. Nothing more than the lofty fantasy of a teenage girl.

"That's what I want you to do here today," Charles said. "You're gonna do this one on your own," he added as he gazed upon her somewhat confused look.

"Wait, you want me to... to..." Tiffany was at a lost for words. The gravity of what Charles was asking was sinking in almost too quickly. Sure, she had seen Charles go into stores just like this and strong-arm the cash from the register before blowing the clerk's head off without a second thought. But to actually do such a damning thing herself? She didn't know if she had the stomach to pull off something like that.

Charles could clearly see the horror spreading across his loved one's face, but he did not back down. "Tiffany, you've seen me do this over a hundred times. All you have to do is take this..." Charles reached underneath the seat and pulled out a revolver of some type. "Take this, go into the store, and get the guy running the place to fill the bag with the cash."

"Charles, I-" Tiffany started, but Charles pressed the handle of the gun into her personal space. She reached out to grab it, wrapping her fingers around the handle. When she did, she felt a warming spread through her arm. She held the gun and, strangely, it already seemed to become an extension of her own arm, like she had always been destined to hold it. He fingers clenched around the pearl grips and she admired the weapon with the sort of reverence you might expect one to see upon someone laying eyes on one of the wonders of the world for the very first time.

Apparently, the fear still had not drained from her face, as Charles spoke again. "Baby, everything is gonna be fine. I promise you, first sign of trouble and I will come in there and bail you out."

"Promise?" Tiffany asked. "Nothing's going to happen to me?"

"Promise," Charles said to her. Tiffany nodded and placed the gun into her bra, somehow perfectly concealing it. A smile cracked on her face. "Now go in there and cap that motherfucker."

The clerk never saw it coming. Tiffany walked inside the store, approached the counter and, first thing, aimed the gun at his skull. She tossed a large pillow case on the counter. As the soft fabric hit the top of the counter with a muffled whisper rustling fabric, the clerk looked up with surprise. She saw the gun shaking in her hands, but couldn't feel any movement.

"Money, bag, now," she said without much conviction. Everything after that was a blur to her. She vaguely remembered the clerk trying to talk her out of it. She remembered a loud bang. She remembered a wet mist spraying her face. Then, everything slowed down. The entire back wall was painted red; the cash register was on the floor. She ran around the counter and placed everything in the register in the bag, including checks and change. For good measure, she emptied the entire clip into the clerk's head. She rushed out to the car and hopped in. The adrenaline in her blood was pumping furiously; she liked it and wanted more.

That's the way it was for the next seven years. Tiffany had turned into a cold-blooded killer, just like her lover.

"Are you gonna ash that cigarette?"

Tiffany gasped and looked around, startled. A handsome young man was standing over the back fence of his own yard next door. He was not young, but not incredibly old either, around late twenties or early thirties. He had close, spiky hair and a rounded, well-worn face. He stood about a head taller than Tiffany, too. Tiffany knew exactly who it was: Andrew Barclay.

"Are you gonna ash that cigarette?" Andy asked again. "Probably not; it's burnt down to the filter. Wouldn't be able to keep smoking it anyway."

Tiffany looked over at the cigarette in her hand and gasped in surprise, quickly dropping the smoldering stick of ash to the ground and stomping it out.

"Shit, that was my last one," Tiffany mourned.

"Here, I got one," Andy said as he magically produced a pack of Marlboros and handed one to Tiffany, who gladly took it.

"Were you thinking, Jennifer?" Andy asked.

"What?" Tiffany asked.

"You seemed like you were in deep thought, so I distracted you."

"Oh, I was just thinking about my kids." Tiffany said. "Uh, could I get a light," she asked before putting the cigarette in her mouth and leaned over the fence. Andy opened up his Zippo and lit hers before lighting one of his own.

"Are they doing alright?" Andy asked with the cigarette dangling from his lips. "I know it's not easy being in Hollywood and raising kids. Sort of teaches them mixed values: on the one hand, there's what you teach them, which, on the other hand, is contradicted by everything they learn about Hollywood."

"Couldn't have said it any better myself," Tiffany said. "It's like they're growing up way faster than they should."

"I hear you," Andy said. "My little girl is about to turn eight years old in a couple days. It seems like only last week she was cooing in my arms and laughing at my funny faces, which, let me be honest, weren't really funny."

"I know," Tiffany mourned. "God, if only their father were still around to see them."

"Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?"

"Oh, he got killed by some crazy bitch." Tiffany said.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Andy said. "Did they ever catch her?"

"Nope, but it's probably for the best. He was an asshole anyway." Tiffany took another drag of her cigarette and then let out a chuckle. "It's actually kind of funny."

"No, I'll tell you what's funny," Andy said as he lit another cigarette. "Growing up, being bounced around from foster home to foster home with this dark secret around your neck, and finally winding up here in Hollywood as the show-runner for one of television's most watched horror-dramas, which, unbeknownst to most, is actually your life story. That is funny."

"Ha," Tiffany laughed. "Sounds like a joke to me."

"And it would be a funny one if it wasn't true," Andy said as he looked at the ground, past the ground…

"Daddy! Charlie's being mean to Violet!"

Andy let out a slight chuckle as he was brought out of his trance.

"Violet?" Tiffany asked. "Do _you_ babysit the Afflecks' daughter?"

"I am for the couple weeks or so, apparently."

"Don't they have three kids?"

"Yeah, but only the girls are staying. And on that note, I better go see what Charlie is up to."

"Whose Charlie, anyway?"

"He's my adoptive sister's son. She's in town."

"Sounds like you got a house full. How about bringing them all over to my house tomorrow? Make it a playdate?"

"That's real nice, Jennifer, but I got to work tomorrow. Hey, you should swing by the studio tomorrow, check out the set."

"That's a nice offer, Andy, but I already went by earlier today. Place was killer…"

"Okay, but if you ever change your mind, just tell them Andy said you could come in."

"Will do, Andy," Tiffany said as Andy walked back inside.


End file.
